


Nihil

by multiplefandomfan



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (potentially temporary?), ALL the tags, Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blindness, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Character, F/M, Fear, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Nor anything post Avengers 2012 compliant., Not Iron Man 3 Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Tony, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Rape Recovery, Rape is only discussed in the past, Recovery, Rescue, Sensory Deprivation, Team as Family, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multiplefandomfan/pseuds/multiplefandomfan
Summary: Nihil. Nothing.His world is formed of nothing. No light. No sound. Nothing but pain, cold, agony.Can he survive?  Will he want to?Deafened, blinded, brutally injured.Can Tony recover from this latest unwilling stint with Hydra where he has been pushed so beyond his limits?
Relationships: Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Comments: 33
Kudos: 65
Collections: Assassin Twins + Tony, Avengers as Family





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... it's another story which focuses on an angst-y Tony. Which again, I have written pretty much in one fell swoop? I have a bad habit of doing that. I'll try giving it an edit tomorrow, but I'm pretty pleased with it tonight. Updates will be slow. Sorry...

Time.

Emit.

Time emit.

Time emits…what?

No. That doesn’t make sense.

Emit time?

Nothing emits time. It droops. Meanders. Wonders. Slowly. Or it dasssssssshhhhhes! Speed! Fast!

That doesn’t really make sense either. But neither does time flow backwards, even if it is emit backwards.

Forwards! Forwards it goes! Onwards, comrades, onwards and upwards….! CHARRGGGEEEEEE!

S

Sl

Slo

Slow…

No.

S

l

o

w 

l

y

…

…..

Warped.

A snicker slipped through cracked lips, a droplet of blood squelches its’ way from the crevices carved within said lips, propelled by the stretch caused by that one snicker. The droplet tremulously begins its’ journey for freedom but is arrested by the parched tongue, desperate for even a hint of moisture, that laps it up before it can bead its way out of the thin skin. 

No one heard it.

The sound churned its way through the empty…room? Cavern? Cage? Who knew. It was cold, frigid. _that_ he knew. Maybe it was even a walk-in fridge?

Blink.

Again.

No new data to be gathered from the visual input. The thought produces another snicker. What visual input? There is none! And has been for so long, some uncountable time period. Forever, perhaps? Was visual input a lie? Colours? Faces? Sound?

Just dark.

Dark.

Darkness.

Black.

B

l

a

….

……………..

……. 

c

k

Pure black. No shadows. No movement. Nothing. Absence of colour. Absence of life. But no, black was not the absence of colour, why was it not white?

Is anyone there? Can anyone hear?

…hello?

The word potentially rings out through the vicinity of the room. It certainly __felt_ _like vocal cords were vibrating, but… no sounds matched the sensation

No surprise.

No sight.

No sound.

No help.

None exist.

Not for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright-y, chapter 2 as chapter 1 really didn't count as a chapter...
> 
> All feedback is greatly desired.

A shudder shimmies its way down the frail form curled within the corner. A low hum emits from his cracked lips, the sound only broken by a pale tongue darting out to lick said lips hoping for a hint of moisture. The sound itself was as cracked as the lips, fritzing out on occasion as the strained and stretched vocal cords refused to sustain the sound. 

The figure itself was huddled against the limestone wall, furthest away from the roughly hewn entrance. His head was curled into itself, almost trying to embed itself into the corner in an apparently protective gesture, or possibly trying to burrow itself away from existence. No matter. The ruinously scarred back was easy evidence of how successful that strategy was.

The figure remained motionless, other than the slight quiver which ran through the unnaturally taut muscles, exhausted from near constant tension whether caused by fear or a vain attempt to make its’ other senses useful. Occasionally, a burst of energy seemed to overwhelm it and it would rock back and forth a few times, seeming to try to ensconce itself further into the walls. No one quite knew why the figure did that – possibly some misguided attempt at comfort? After all, it could neither hear nor see, so the movement would provide reassurance that it was still partially protected. 

The head, the only covered part of the figure, was swathed in a rubber or silicone like hood, one that entirely eclipsed its’ entire head leaving two small holes by the nostrils and a small slip where the mouth was located barely big enough to allow sustenance to pass through. The rest of wrapped tightly around the man’s skull, including over its eyes, only cut off at the neck where it was held in place by an iron collar clamping the hood securely to the man’s neck. 

A smile curved over a pair of thin, cruel lips. Their owner knew precisely how claustrophobic-inducing that hood was – he had tried it on himself, after all. 

The smile widened further as the Hydra soldier continued to observe the subject, one Tony Stark, shuddered once again before muttering something to himself, unimportant words that slurred and slid together with a variety of volumes of pitches and eventually morphed into a series of short, sharp shrieks and screams. They’d been steadily pushing the hero to this point for the past thirteen to fourteen months – a combination of sensory and sleep deprivation, starvation and random assaults had nearly caused the man to lose his mind. Surely it couldn’t take too much longer? The man spent his days either being beaten or rocking back and forth. He had next to no fat left on his body – indeed, the scientists had had to work overtime to plan out ‘meals’ for him to ensure that he got sufficient nutrients that his organs didn’t start eating themselves. As far as the gossip in the mess hall seemed to go, the latest plan was to wait until he had broken sufficiently to their satisfaction and only then inject him with some bastardised serum before putting him on ice for long enough to allow his organs and insides to heal.

That was what the gossip suggested, at any rate. 

Those in command had apparently had to alter their plans several times – they’d initially tried to fry the man’s mind through a combination of electric shock and more alternate strategies to cause pain, but after several months that hadn’t succeeded. They’d then progressed onto drugs before one genius had suggested this. This was definitely the least popular amongst the ground troops as skin-to-skin contact was no longer aloud, and several of his fellow soldiers had been greatly enjoying some of that contact. But it was seeming the most successful. By the soldier’s count, they’d been using these strategies for three months now and he did barely seem to be clinging to sanity. The soldier didn’t quite know how those in command wanted Stark to be looking like when they considered him ready to progress onto Stage Two? But it surely couldn’t be that much longer… 

In his heart of hearts, a part of him did regret his part in bringing the hero this low. He’d idolised Iron Man as a boy – watching reports of him on the news avidly. As a teen he’d watched the man push the missile up through a wormhole and thereby saving Manhattan…. But the thought of having that intellect and courage fighting on behalf of Hydra more than made up for any guilt. With Iron Man on their side, then Hydra would be able to overthrow the corrupt leaders of the modern day with ease. They would take command and make the world an infinitely better place. The Avengers would be easier to defeat as they’d be less willing to hurt their old comrade. Sometimes, for good things to happen? It was necessary to cut out all the corrupt, broken roots and burn them all to the ground only to replant anew with better, stronger things. That was what Hydra would do.

Still, his ability to be able to easily see each and every one of the man’s ribs (and the breaks within them) force their way in and out with each shallow breath did send a vague sense of nausea curdling through his stomach. People just shouldn’t _be_ that gaunt. Not and still be moving, at any rate. The way his skin curved in and out of the ribs to create miniature crevices… it was sickening, really. And the way knobbly joints looking so much larger than limbs truly betrayed how little fat was on the man. It truly could only be the man’s world-renowned stubborn nature keeping him alive. In many ways the soldier was pleased that Stark’s limbs were chained to each other and a collar rested upon his neck. It meant that his collarbones were obscured from vision and the true size of his limbs were hard to ascertain. The scientists and doctors were certainly going to need to spend a large amount of time retraining him to regrow his muscles and ensure his heart was strong enough. Still, all this effort would be worth it. 

With those thoughts bolstering him, the soldier and two of his comrades picked up the metal poles that were leaning casually by the metal door. His supervisor took the key and unlocked the heavy, metal door, cursing under his breath as he was forced to jiggle the key. Piece of junk; the key always jammed as the soldier well knew. After several moments the lock finally turned and three bars holding the door closed were removed. They’d definitely grown more lax with the security as the months went by – when Stark had first been moved into his new home they’d placed sheet metal covering the door as well as some of the large rocks which were strewn around their underground base. Orders had been to keep it as low tech as possible, and they’d definitely achieved that. But as the man had weakened further, or as his bones were broken making it impossible for him to move, then measures were deemed less necessary. It certainly made it easier for those who interacted with Stark frequently! 

The four men entered the room without bothering to attempt quiet, with only wrinkled noses to betray the stench that worsened with the wide open door. What was the point? The man could neither hear nor see them after all. The prolonged deprivation had, it appeared, given him an increased sensitivity though. He definitely displayed awareness that they’d entered, his head twitched slightly before attempting to bury itself further into the corner it was embedded in, shudders had begun anew and he’d begun muttering, barely discernible through the hood, words further. “Wun du it. Wun. Wun h’pn. No. Nein. 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21…” the words and numbers bloomed in and out of easy hearing, sometimes being muttered and sometimes gasped loudly. “Black. Time. Time…emit. Bcwuds. Time bcwuds emit…” 

One of the other soldiers shook his head in frustration shooting a glare at the man crouched on the floor. “Wish I could give him a good slap to shut him up…” he grumbled, earning a sharp glance from their supervisor. “What shit’s he muttering this time?” 

“I’m pretty sure that was the Fibonacci sequence at one point…” answered one of the others as he began to move the pole towards the man in the corner. “I guess he’s still well enough to try and keep his brain ticking over. What’s the plan for today, sir?” 

Their commander tracked his gaze thoughtfully over the once hero clearly running through his own orders mentally. “Stress position today gents, arms above his head and then stretched until he’s on the balls of his feet. Then pull his legs back a bit so that his weight is on his hands. You get me, lads? Add in a bit of rubber tubing – not too often, and make sure you don’t hit his kidneys. Grant, you can take that. No broken bones this time if you can manage it – bruises only. As little blood as possible too – he’s running a bit low. Try ta aim for the non-broken leg, the left one I think? That bone has had a bit of a break, break as in rest, of late and should have healed a bit. Hit the thigh, ass and upper right arm, them should do the trick. The swelling is going down there too so it can take some hits. Looks like that’s where the least cuts are – will make it hard to hold the position too. We’ll keep him like that for a few hours – and then sneak out on him. See how long he holds himself for before realising we’re gone. We haven’t pulled thet one on him for a bit.”

The three men nodded in sync, Grant passed his pole over to the remaining soldier, Brown, a short, stocky man who liked beer on his off days, before moving to the corner of the room furthest from Tony’s huddle and removed an inch wide of rubber tubing, about four metres long. He curled it in half before taking a practise swing or two. He knew this part well – Stark clearly knew they were present, and now it was just about building the anticipation for the man. What was going to happen to him today? “Sir, what about water? I haven’t seen Reaves bring any round today.” 

The commander shook his head in one decisive movement. “The docs reckon he can go another day or so without. They took some tests off his last blood leaking and his kidneys have strengthened a bit again. Need to be careful of them still.” Grant nodded in acknowledgement, resisting the urge salute the order, as he continued to move the rubber tubing around wanting to ensure familiarity with its range and weight. “Sir,” some days it was hard to leave the lessons learnt in the army behind, even though he knew they weren’t cultivated within Hydra. 

The other two men, Brown and Rodriguez who still bore the other pole, began to move into position. Both men ensured that they held one end of the pole allowing the other, which was fashioned into a claw like shape, to make contact with the hero’s wrists. Stark halted the stream of alternating words and numbers as he felt the cool of the metal grasp and began to shudder anew, only emitting a low, keening moan that his battered throat could not possibly sustain. “Begin,” snarled the commander, the first emotion his voice betrayed in the entire encounter his gaze fixed on the man before him as he looked for any tricks. 

Brown and Rodriguez pressed buttons on their poles which immediately activated the electromagnets built within the claw grips causing the metal rings around the Stark’s wrists to immediately be attracted to them causing the low keen to raise in pitch and volume as Stark instinctively began trying to futilely tug his wrists towards his chest. Sympathy once again poked its’ nose into Grant’s chest – each time they grasped something different on the tortured man. The oscillating actions making it impossible for Stark to have any idea what he should aim to protect until it was too late. If he’d been more with it then he might have realised that there was a vague pattern to what was hurt depending on how things were healing, but he was far too far gone to spot that these days. 

Still. Grant had his job, and he truly believed in his cause. He would keep his mind on the end goal and ignore the less than pleasant steps it took to reach it. 

While he was ruminating, the other two had managed to unfurl Stark and lift him to his tottering feet – one leg was evidently broken – the bone was pushing, though not cutting through yet, his skin the opposite way in a vaguely grotesque fashion and attempting to buckle even from the meagre amount of weight that was being put on it. The other was vibrating with tension, its knee fluttering in place as Stark forced it to bare most of his weight. His keening noise had slackened off into gasping noises – probably would have been screams if he had enough oxygen, that were barely audible through the rubber mask sealing the majority of his mouth, to Grant’s secret relief. His stomach was fluttering through his attempts at sucking in air, attempts that were equally hindered by said mask, and Grant could see each and every tiny muscle flutter in a vague attempt to hold up the battered frame. It really was quite nauseating to watch.

He ran through his instructions whilst he waited for the other two to push Stark into the ordered position. The locations were clear and would definitely be a challenge to hit – the tubing wasn’t particularly accurate and it was easy to hit harder than he intended due to the length. Add on that that that he had to make sure he didn’t stand too close – it was important that Stark received as little sensory input as and he was sensitive enough by now to register an increase in heat if he went too close. 

“Right, his hands are in about the right place by now.” Came through the voice of his commander, tone and words far too steady. “Keep him there for a bit, boys. Let him get his breath enough to stand then Rodriguez, you can move his feet out.” Grant watched his supervisor carefully, a thrill of distaste running down his spine. The man always seemed so jovial, but he evidently despised Stark and delighted in causing him pain. He hasn’t been allowed to give the orders during the initial attempts at breaking Stark, but had definitely partaken in the beatings, and Grant was fairly certain, judging from some of Stark’s reactions, he’d gone further than that. 

As they waited, Stark muffled sounds slowly morphed into the muffled screams that Grant was familiar with causing a smirk to appear on the other three men’s faces. “Feet now, Rogers?” questioned Brown, restrained eagerness easily audible. “He’s swaying less and seeming pretty steady…” Rogers, the commander, nodded his eyes darkening in some emotion that Grant could not share. Brown released his electromagnet, and immediately drew his pole back before reattaching it to the man’s ankle rings and forcing the feet back one by one about half a meter. The movement drew a howl of agony from the beaten frame as his knee joints immediately collapsed as the man was held up by the other magnet attached to his wrist and blood spattered the floor where barely healed scabs were ripped off from the underside of his feet.

“Oops,” grinned Brown. “Sorry, not sorry?” 

Rogers shot him a look, but the lack of actual chastisement clearly indicated that he wasn’t too bothered. 

Grant carefully refused to allow his facial expression to shift, whether in admiration or in pity for the man before him. He wanted to verbally acknowledge how impressed he was that the man’s other, now released, hand hadn’t slipped more than an inch despite the buckling of the rest of his body. How, despite everything, the man was still able to physically stand and hold the position he’d been put into despite the agony he had to be in. How strong was this man? Where did he draw his reserves from? Why did he not just fully break and spare himself this suffering? “Come on, Stark…” he muttered to himself, “just give in alright already!” Rodriguez glanced at him, grinning. 

“I hear ya, Grant. Patty were telling me that she heard the one of the docs say that when the brainwashing fully takes hold after he stops showing resistance here, then he can be open for business again. I missed my chance at him earlier and definitely regret it!” Grant resisted the urge to make a reply, allowing his silence to be taken whichever way his companions chose. Some days he despised the people he worked with… Still, at least he knew those on top were better. 

Now they were back to waiting, the other three exchanging idle chatter as they observed the man before them. The magnets had both been released meaning that Stark was, somehow, standing under his own steam. He wasn’t in the full position this stress position would typically require – that asked for splayed fingers so that his finger pads would be holding up the majority of his body weight, but that kind of positioning would have required physical contact to ensure it happen, and that was a big no no. But it was still beyond an effort for the man who’s whole frame was vibrating as he tried his best to hold himself upright and spread eagled against the stone-roughened wall. Grant could see more blood curling its way down his broken fingers as they dug in, the fragile skin had already been torn so many times that it required next to no pressure to tear again. 

The man managed less than three minutes before his knees buckled completely sending him falling to the floor with another screech of agony filled with babbling words and sounds that Grant did his absolute best to ignore. Knowing what was expected of him, he took half a step forward and raised the piping ready to hit the man as a punishment. But for some reason he seemed to be registering a sharp pain in his neck as his body disobeyed his commands; his arm fell down, the rubber tubing making a slight noise as it fell to the floor, the rest of his body following it.

How…odd….

It was the last thought he ever had. 

The other three gaped in shock as Grant made a gasping noise of almost surprise and glided gracefully to the ground. 

With an arrow sticking out of his neck. 

The other three had barely a moment to react to this latest development before another two arrows were sailing their way into the room and hitting their targets with deadly grace. Rodriguez, eyes wide in both horror and shock, darted backwards further into the room, half tempted to get to Stark to use him as a shield, and half tempted to radio through to someone. Anyone to let them kno-

He didn’t get a chance to decide. 

A red haired ball of fury darted her way into the room a dagger in one hand and …something in her other. Rodriguez barely had time to register the complete and utter fury blazing within her eyes before a sharp pain spread across his neck followed by a curiously wet feeling. “You deserve so much worse” were the last hissed words he heard as blackness swiftly tunneled his vision.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been beta-read by the oh so wonderful MountainKestrel. Go shower them with admiration!

Natasha, ignoring the crumpled bodies on the floor surrounding her, looked around her for any further trace of life. The ‘room’ before her was surprisingly well lit considering that it was better labelled as a glorified hole in the rock rather than a room. The roughly-hewn walls were filled with crevices and cracks, far too small to hide in, it was a vivid contrast to the cold metallic walls from the rooms and stairways in the upper floors of this base. It was little more than a cave, really. 

Its contents were… Well, they would have been intimidating to most. Poles, pipes, cuffs…Something that looked like a cattle prod, knives that gleamed in the harsh, unnatural light and other tools that she did not have time to examine beyond a brief, assessing glance. This was definitely not a room designed for comfort. And the _stench_ Piss and shit. Sweat… Natasha allowed her lip to curl in distaste whilst her stomach churned in disgust as she checked the downed forms around her for signs of life. She had no wish to receive a knife in the back today, thank you. 

“Clear,” she called to her partner before moving to stand before the only figure still moving in the room. This figure. Part of her hoped that it was Tony. A large part of her. But… This _weak_ , pitiful figure that was whimpering, attempting to put itself upright. This should not be Tony. Could not. Tony should not be lying there, naked, covered in burns and bruises. Cuts and gashes. Swathed in a black, rubber-like hood wrapped around his entire head presumably to prevent any sight or sound. There must be breathing holes in there, but it was clear there weren’t many judging by how muffled his whimpers were. It couldn’t be Tony. This man was trying to curl into himself as though he wanted to shrink from existence. Disappear from the torment that his world clearly held. 

“Widow?” came the low, safe voice of her partner as he entered the room, bow at the ready despite her reassurance. “Status?” A low thread of concern was audible, though probably only to her, as he spoke. It was not common for her to just stand still in a situation where her team-mates were wreaking havoc on a Hydra base. 

“There’s a prisoner here,” she muttered, her voice as tight as Clint’s bowstring as she slipped to one side, allowing him to see the maltreated figure she was examining. “He’s…,” Yes, it was definitely a he – the man wore no other clothes so it was easy to figure that out. “He’s not in a good shape.” And wasn’t that an understatement? The man before her was skin and bone; skin stretched so tightly over the bone beneath so as to be grotesque. So pale that it appeared translucent in places. And littered with burns, bruises, cuts… It was a stereotype to say that there wasn’t an inch unmarked, but she truly could not spot one that didn’t have some form of blemish on it. It was impossible to spot any defining marks, and she certainly looked. 

Clint, thank…whoever, was not frozen the way she seemed to be. With a muttered curse, he slung his bow over his shoulder, trusting his partner to keep an eye out. “Hey, man.” He moved toward the battered figure, stepping far heavier than usual in an attempt to send vibrations through the uneven ground. “You can’t hear me at all, I’m guessing.” His tone was taut, like Natasha’s, despite his attempts to make it soothing. He too felt the confusing hope but not hope that this was their missing teammate, friend. “How can we get to you without making you freak out, hm? You don’t look like you can handle much in the way of freaking out.” 

He crouched down barely a meter away from the figure, head tilted slightly in consideration as all his attention zeroed in on this man, looking for any defining features that could help identify him. But the man was too shrunken, too scarred…It was too hard to work it out without seeing his face. Well. It wasn’t like they were going to leave him here if it wasn’t Tony! 

“What do you reckon, Tash?” he called over his shoulder, refusing to take his eyes off the mewling creature before him. “Should I try and get that hood off? Or wait until we get out?”

Natasha, given something to focus her thoughts on rather than unidentifiable emotions, took a further look around the room trying to identify a way to dim the harsh, buzzing light. But there seemed to be little in the room other than torture implements. She turned back to her partner still crouching steadily on the floor, “I think so. He’ll be blinded by the light, but hopefully his hearing will be able to tune in quickly.” She growled at herself internally, this uncertainty was unlike her. “Do it. We need to move soon.” 

The reminder of their location settled Clint’s resolve as he slowly reached one calloused hand out to the man’s slightly extended, evidently broken, leg. He rested it gently on the man’s foot, fingers pressing down slightly so as to lessen the effect of any jerk or flinch that might occur that could exacerbate the injury further. The full body flinch was expected. The fist to the face? Less so. 

_HEAT._

_CONTACT._

Something had touched him. Somebody had _touched_ him. 

He didn’t think. He was nothing. He had nothing left in him to think.

He acted.

One arm flailed in the direction that the heat was coming from, dislocated and possibly broken fingers curled into the best approximation of a fist that he could manage. The contact made him shriek in furious pain even as the rest of his body went slack, too broken to even shiver in response. His fist fell to the rocky ground tearing scabs of partially healed wounds as it made contact with the rough surface causing yet another spurt of blood to wind it’s way to the stained floor. Any strength he had gained from the sudden influx of adrenaline drained from him faster than the blood which made tracks down his skin.

Heat curled around his fist as he lay there, panting harshly against the broken ribs. He closed his eyes against the anticipation of the heat squeezing his battered bones and piling yet more pain upon his already agony-wrought frame. His vocal chords vibrated as some sound must have slithered out of his mouth. Hell knows what. His brain had definitely disengaged enough to not be able to decide on words. At least, one tattered side of his mind thought ruefully, he felt some _heat_. Contact. It had been so long…

His head. Fuck, his head. Could you feel the world swimming when you were lying down, blind and deaf? Apparently. He tried. Tried so hard to tug his hand back, keep it safe. No, no, no. Don’t break it. Please? But the warmth encasing it was…circling? Moving? Rubbing. That was the word. Rubbing. 

A shudder swept over him, despite himself. 

Surely it was the precursor to something bad happening… but it felt so good. He’d been frozen for so long…

The warmth slowly tracked its way up his arm, up past his… thing. His shoulder. That thing. Then it disappeared. The renewed chill forcing him to violently start once more. 

Clint cursed and swiftly placed his hand back on the man’s shoulder, renewing the contact whilst his other hand fiddled with removing the mask. Stupid. That hand was letting this man know precisely where he was, and then he pulled it away… Idiot archer. Clint continued to watch what he was doing carefully, blocking out the muffled voice streaming threats and mewls of pain or fear. To some, the repeated, hushed words of ‘kill you, kill you’ would have caused pause. But Clint never did have the best sense of self preservation. 

He risked taking his eyes off the volatile man in front of him to take a quick glance at his partner in crime. To his complete of lack of surprise, she’d bullied her way past whatever had held her in place earlier, and had gone to stand by the door, murmuring into their comms periodically as she kept guard to ensure no one could sneak up on them. 

With a quiet crow of triumph, he found the buckles that were holding the hood closed – so simple when you had eyes and working digits - and began trying to unbuckle them. “All right, man, and you really have to be Tony. I’m going to start getting this off now.” He tapped the shoulder gently beneath his left hand to try and give him some warning that a change was about to occur. Then he slowly began undoing the buckles, wincing as they got caught in the few tufts of matted, blood-stiffened brown hair that were poking through.

“Sorry, sorry…” he murmured as the figure tensed and twisted beneath him clearly trying to escape. What a FUBAR situation. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, restrain this man in the slightest. Using Clint’s own body to press the other man into the ground would undoubtedly hurt him as well as potentially worsen any of his already severe injuries. Clint let out another curse as the man threw his head backwards. He only just avoided smashing it into the wall due to Clint’s quick reflexes and cushioning the blow with his own hand. “Fuck….” He hissed between his teeth, wincing. That had _hurt _damnit. Bloody hard wall...__

__He shot another glance towards Nat, hoping she could do something to help here. Yes, the victim’s movements were weak and easy to control, but they were desperate and making it hard to undo the buckles. Nat’s calm voice came through, audible through both his hearing aids and the comm that he was wearing. “Cap. Can you make your way down here?” A double click of acknowledgement was the response, and Clint’s lips curved upwards into a slight smile. In their mission planning stage, they’d worked out that Rogers would be their closest contact, a runner of sorts, keeping himself as free as possible if they needed him while Thor and Hulk did the heavy work on the floor above them._ _

__With the knowledge that another pair of eyes was moments away, Nat peeled herself away from guard duty and migrated to Clint’s side to offer an extra pair of hands. With a firm grip, she took hold of both the person’s shoulders, wincing at the muffled angry shriek the movement caused, and pulled the upper torso as gently as possible despite the writing movements. Soon he was leaning as far away from the wall as possible, which allowed Clint to slip in behind him._ _

__Both spies winced at the renewed volume of noises that this action generated. The attempted head butts, punches, kicks… All of his movements were hindered by the circular cuffs wrapped around his joints and neck. But it was safer for him, really. If he’d been slamming himself into the wall with this force… Well. Clint could already see the front of his uniform dampening with blood from the man’s back. It was not a pleasant thought to think of that splattering over the wall behind him._ _

__With Natasha’s help to keep the man somewhat steady, Clint made fast work of the buckles keeping the mask closed. That was when he hit a snag._ _

__“Fucking fuckers who fuck…What the actual fucking hell? Every. Fucking. Time!_ _

__“Clint.” Natasha’s voice brought the tirade to a sharp end, glancing at Steve who had just arrived and rapidly took in the situation at a glance, chest not even lightly panting despite the fact he’d been sprinting._ _

__“The … The fuckers have stapled it. Into his head.” Clint’s eyes slipped closed for just a moment as he breathed through a moment of nausea. He could never understand the casual cruelty that Hydra seemed far too capable of just bandying around._ _

__“Change the plan,” came Captain America’s crisp order. “Getting him out is first priority.”_ _

__“He has no idea who we are. And we can’t be certain that it’s…” came Natasha’s reply, not a disagreement, just filling Cap in. “That and he’s badly injured, I’m not certain how badly, yet. Weak too. He’s been fighting us at any chance he gets despite the risk to himself.”_ _

__The blue-and-white cowled man nodded. “Understood, but we can’t stay here for much longer - Thor and Hulk are keeping things quiet at this end, but I met my fair share of grunts. We haven’t got the time to calm him down and we’ll need equipment to help him.”_ _

__Clint and Natasha nodded, the desire to try and make it clear to the poor man before them that he was in safe hands was so strong, but they really had no other choice._ _

__“Gimme a sec.” Clint knelt upright, ensuring that he was still cushioning the man from the wall; he was definitely going to have some bruises on his back tomorrow. He swiftly removed his combat vest, and then tugged off the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing beneath it. Quickly, so as to try and retain as much of the body heat it held as possible, he wrapped it around the naked form before him, trying his best to keep the arms inside the encircling garment._ _

__Then, he tied the sleeves behind the man’s back._ _

__The action curdled his stomach, despite knowing he was right._ _

__“That… that’ll hopefully stop him from flailing too much. And keep him warm.” He spoke over the renewed shriek. The man’s energy, and oxygen, had to have been running low – his struggling had definitely lessened over the past few minutes, but he seemed to have been rejuvenated once more upon having been further restrained. Clint hated himself. Just a little bit. He knew that a shirt wasn’t going to fully restrain the man, but still…_ _

__Maintaining his position between the wall and flailing man, (Tony, it had to be), Clint replaced his combat vest as he got his feet underneath himself so he was crouching, the mans back bracketed between his thighs. With Natasha’s help, he maneuvered the battered frame so that he could slip one arm around his lightly bound shoulders, and one over and around his twig-thin legs. Without allowing himself to think, he pushed himself upright, easily balancing himself against the negligible weight cradled within his arms._ _

__He allowed both hands to gently start rubbing the most soothing circles he could manage in this position as the man howled anew as far too many broken bones shifted. “Stoppppppp,” came a whine that Clint did his best to tune out. It hurt to be treating anyone so callously, let alone a potential friend, but they just did not have enough _time_ to do anything else._ _

__“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he whispered as Nat tried to help the thrashing head so it could be cradled under Clint’s chin. Clint needed to use his own body as much as possible to restrain the man, not just to prevent him from hurting himself. Clint may well need to move fast. They had no clue what injuries were beneath that battered, stretched skin – well. They had some clues. The gauntness easily displayed cracks and rivets, several breaks even, within the ribs. His leg was obviously broken, his fingers… But they had no time to have a thorough look. Fast, jarring movements could easily cause further damage. Clint had no more fabric to swaddle the man in to protect him in, so he’d have to use himself as best he could._ _

__“Let’s move,” came the cold-sounding words from Widow and the three exited the room, turning back the way they came._ _

__Clint crept down the corridor with Steve in the front and Widow behind, hunched over to keep as much as the man covered as he could. His movements were mimicked by the other two Avengers with him._ _

__Steve had his teeth gritted and shield out, every sense reaching out as far as he could extend it, listening for sound or an air current to reveal someone else’s presence other than the other three behind him._ _

__The four stole their way down the corridor, the silence of their steps only interrupted by the moans coming from the prisoner’s throat. Clint winced at each sound; there was nothing at all he could do to suppress the noises man he bore made. Covering his mouth would be a disaster as the mask already limited his oxygen intake and he was already weak enough. If Clint dared to knock him unconscious he had no guarantee that the man would wake up again, plus the fucking mask would inhibit any way of doing CPR if that became necessary. There was no way he could be heard through that mask… and there was no way the man in his arms would be compos mentis enough to recognise Clint’s face by touching him. It might not even be Tony. All he could really do was continue to rub his hands in a circular movement and hope it was remotely soothing… He hated this encompassing feeling of uselessness. So, so much._ _

__He watched as Cap raised his fist in the air and immediately sunk lower to the ground, taking care to cover his burden’s body with as much of his own as possible. The motion forced another groan out of the man, but Clint had no space for guilt right now. He hushed the man, despite knowing the futility of the action._ _

__Cap paced silently forward a few steps until he reached a corner turning to the left. There, he halted, frame so still that Clint could barely see him even breath, every muscle taut with tension as he waited for some signal only he knew.  
Then, he moved._ _

__Faster than a snake one arm thrust its way around the corner. A bitten off cry came from around the bend as Cap dragged back somebody clad in a HYRDA uniform and straight into his shield that he had held out the ready and knocking them straight out cold. The whole attack had occurred in the time it took Clint to take two slow breaths. He never grew tired of seeing that. “Smooth Cap,” Clint whispered, quietly enough that only the supersoldier could have picked it up. The soldier didn’t acknowledge the remark, but Clint just knew that he’d be wearing that shit-eating grin he sometimes wore._ _

__“What’s the sit-rep up there, Thor? Came Steve’s voice, barely above a whisper over the comms._ _

__“These fiends are barely a challenge! It is like, what is the expression you Midgardians use… shooting fish in a barrel. The way out should be clear as should be the rest of the base. Friend Hulk is merely smashing machinery now and SHIELD is reporting the base clear. What about our friend, has there been any sign? Were reports correct this time?”_ _

__No one was fooled by the forced joviality and undercurrent of hope entrenched in Thor’s tone. The past year had been…tough. So many false alarms, so many innocents rescued who weren’t the innocent they were truly looking for. It was hard to maintain hope._ _

__“…Unknown,” came Widow’s succinct reply. “We have one of their prisoners…but we don’t know who it is.”_ _

__“…Aye,” came the slightly more solemn reply. The hope that had barely been present already dissipated. “I will await you up here.”_ _

__“Acknowledged. Out.” the Widow replied as she tapped her comm to turn off the mic. Cap didn’t need prompting. Trusting his teammate’s words, he moved around the corner followed by Hawkeye, who took absolutely no care to step around the fallen Hydra soldier and instead took the short cut of walking over him instead with Widow at the rear, still keeping a sharp look out._ _

__The pace was slightly faster than previously, but Clint didn’t dare try a jog, completely unwilling to risk knocking around his burden. He instead continued to make his stride as smooth, yet hurried, as possible. There was no doubt that whoever this poor bastard was, they certainly needed severe medical attention. Now the way out was reported clear? They could get him to it faster._ _

__Time seemed to slip away from the three heroes as they emerged from the base, nodding to their teammate and handler standing beside him. It had taken some months for Clint to stop glaring at Coulson, and even more for him to stop pulling barely-excusable-as-pranks on Fury. The deception still cut deep when he thought about it, but…He could understand it. The team had needed a boost. And no one really imagined that Coulson would actually survive his wound. Fury had just…reported the news early. And Clint hated him for it. But understood it, as much as made him hate his logical agent mind. He didn’t really blame Coulson, he’d been busy fighting for his life at the time!_ _

__Coulson approached the heroes with a trolly for the man in Clint’s arms already by his side, two medics already approaching with hands out stretched._ _

__“What’s his status?” came the quiet words from their Handler, attention lasered in on the body that could do little more than make barely-there sounds and twitches by this point._ _

__Clint sighed, a catalogue of all that he’d observed coming to the forefront of his brain. “I don’t think he’s got a broken spine. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been the only thing not broken. He’s bad, Coulson. Bad as I’ve ever seen someone be and still be alive.” A part of Clint’s mind cursed himself, he knew he was running off too little sleep. Reports needed to be succinct, but he was just so damn tired… Think. First aid rules. Breathing, bleeding, bones. “He’s either really short of breath, or is struggling to breathe. I can’t figure out if that’s because of the mask or not. Bleeding from everywhere. Broken left leg, ribs, fingers. Probably elsewhere too. Burns everywhere. Just… everything, really. And thin. So thin. You don’t need an x-ray to see the broken bones. Can see every last bone within him. More cuts and bruises than skin…and then this fucking mask thing. Sensory deprivation stapled into the back of his head. He’s feisty too.”_ _

__A hand that felt surprisingly warm landed gently on his freezing shoulder. “Easy, Clint.” Huh. He hadn’t realised he was shaking. He looked to the blue eyes of the Captain, the owner of said hand, and twitched his shoulder in an irritation fashion as he moved to place the man on the ready stretcher._ _

__“I’m fine,” came the bitten off words, anger underlying them, anger that was completely invisible with how gently he placed the figure on the bed. “Just tired.” Completely ignoring his teammates concerned glances, he stepped back and watched as the medics began to move around the man lying on the bed. There was nothing he could do at all now. He couldn’t try to reassure the clearly terrified man; he sure wouldn’t leave him alone, but there was absolutely fuck all he could do._ _

__He just sat there and watched as the medics…medicked. And SHIELD…SHIELDed. Agents swarming in and out of the base, escorting prisoners and taking them into steel grey vans whilst the medics wrapped bandages around what they could as they prepped the man (Tony?) for transport. Everyone just ignoring the ragged words of confusion and pain that were barely understandable from the form on the bed. What could they do? Clint, found himself standing by the head of the man with a hand on his juddering shoulder once again, rubbing it as soothingly as he could._ _

__To his complete and utter disbelief… the man calmed some under his touch. With effort that was clear from the way the tendons stood out, he turned his head so that it almost slammed into Clint’s hand, and managed to puff out the words, weaker than weak and just so full of pain “…B’rd brain?”_ _

__“…Tony!”_ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not later than intended, apologies!

Chapter 4: 

Clint should have felt guilty about the increased urgency, it was clear everyone felt once the prisoner was verified as being Tony. He should have felt furious at the treatment his friend had received. He should have felt terror that he couldn’t look at the man and imagine him surviving. He should have felt… something.

He had the vague feeling that if he had been standing, then his legs would have been shaking. Hadn’t he been standing? When did he sit down? Cap’s legs certainly were shaking enough for the pair of them. Cap was leaning one hand heavily on Clint’s shoulder and almost vibrating with the adrenaline that must have been coursing him. This was an enemy they couldn’t fight. Weakness. Injury. Sickness. Who knew what else?

Thirteen months.

Thirteen months, three weeks and … three days. No. Four days.

That’s how long Tony had been away from them for.

How many of those months had he been wearing that fucking mask for? 

How many times had his skin been split? How many times had that leg been broken? What about the other one, had that been broken too? 

Tony had been gone for long enough to have bones break, heal and then rebreak again. Several times. His skin would have healed, cut, bruised… All of these injuries would just be layered. Injury upon injury. He’d been gone for _so_ long. Had they looked hard enough for him? Or had they given up, believing him dead. Had they really left every stone unturned? Could they have found him sooner? 

“ -ton!”

Clint jerked back in his seat, only just noticing the medic’s face so close to his own that they were almost kissing. _“Please tell me nobody kissed me.”_ echoed through his mind, ghosts of words from years in the past as he blinked, re-orientating himself.

“Agent Barton! Hawkeye!” 

Right. That rude medic was trying to get his attention. “What!” he snapped irritably. He was tired, alright? Tired people were prone to distraction, just look at all those times that someone had to practically carry Tony to bed when he’d been pushing the limits of human endurance and had to remind him to complete simple tasks due to his distraction.

The medic simply raised an eyebrow, and it was far too unfair how many people in SHIELD could say volumes purely through their eyebrows. Were there training sessions in this? Nat would surely be the trainer, and she’d have told him if she taught those classes. “You need to touch him again. He is recognising you and can’t hear us. He needs your reassurance.” 

Clint’s eyes were drawn back to Tony, not realising that he’d looked away, why couldn’t he just _focus_? Sure enough, one of those battered, broken arms was reaching out. It was desperately pathetic the way it was searching for something, anything of reassurance. And even more agonising to think about how it barely resembled an arm, littered as it was with swollen lumps from the bruises and misshapen from the bones being out of alignment. Tony’s muffled voice was muttering words that were barely audible, let alone discernible, but Clint was fairly certain that if he had been able to understand them, then he’d recognise his name. 

Thankfully, his legs didn’t seem to require instructions from his brain to move. He found himself crouching down next to the man lying limply on the bed. One hand was placed on the less bruised looking shoulder and began stroking it, whilst the other clasped the shrivelled limb as gently as he could.

He wanted, so much, to be able to pet the man’s hair, or engage in some conversation with him to distract him from the obvious pain. He wanted to be able to warn Tony when someone was going to move him, or touch him, but none of that was possible. Why did he have to be so fucking _useless_. He couldn’t find his friend in time. He had allowed him to get captured in the first place. And now he couldn’t even comfort him; could only uselessly watch as bandages were applied with a skill that far surpassed his own. The medic had looked at the mask askance on his head and decided that the Quinjet was not the kind of place to remove the staples, despite the ongoing distress it was so clearly causing Tony. 

Clint really didn’t like him. Stupid man. He liked even less that his suggestions made sense.

He wouldn’t administer any strong painkillers despite the obvious pain due to the inability to gain consent, even. That’s where Steve was – trying to contact Colonel Rhodes who acted as Tony’s medical proxy apparently in things like this. It was just a fucked-up situation all round. Tony was technically conscious, so the medic refused to administer anything that would be remotely strong enough to do anything. He just spread numbing cream and wrapped bandages around some of the deeper gashes. Clint did his best to help by maintaining contact with the terrified form before him, but the helplessness grated on him. More than a little. 

This was one of his best friends, for fuck’s sake, why was he being so Thor-be-damned _helpless_. 

“Breathe, Clint. We are doing the best we can.” The warm, heavy hand on his shoulder instantly identified the speaker as Steve who had somehow returned to the bedside without Clint’s notice. Steve. Who could, and did, trip over dust particles when he wasn’t focusing. 

“Did you get through to Rhodes?” was the only thing that Clint could think to say in return as one hand stroked soothing circles on the limb he was holding. His gaze was laser focused on the figu-Tony, who was lying on the bed, his frame still spasming as he fought and won over the panic and pain that kept cresting over him. Wave after wave, he, somehow, kept them from overwhelming him.

“I did, yes, he’s on the phone now with Agent Bronson.” That was one of the most amazing things about the Captain. His voice so rarely betrayed any inkling of the stress that he was under when offering support to someone else, and Clint was definitely not unaware enough to recognise the man’s ‘reassuring’ tone. It was rich, warm and somehow did cause a feeling of calm to wash over his battered nerves. The asshole. How could he even have a patriotic tone of voice? 

Clint ‘allowed’ the conversation to glaze over him as he sat and stared at Tony, hoping that his minor attempts were helping him at least a bit. He certainly seemed much calmer than he’d been earlier. Was calmer, no ‘seems’ about it. Clint just couldn’t imagine having his sight and hearing taken from him – it was bad enough having slightly worse than normal hearing. To be blinded, deafened, and then tortured? Clint vaguely felt a shudder run through his body. Amongst his worst nightmares, for sure. 

Time…passed? Supposedly? It felt like thick, like treacle, dripping through a funnel. Gloopy. Anyway, before Clint fully realised it there were more medics entering the Quinjet, and they were apparently at the Tower. With a Rhodes and Pepper present. And a Nat gently removing his hand from Tony’s with the fond-sounding words “Your watch has ended, Hawkeye.” Hah! He _knew_ she’d either watched Game of Thrones or read the book series! “You can quit your mantling, Hawk.” The words soothed the spikes of anxiety that had been growing as more people had entered his sphere of awareness like nothing else would. 

And damn the woman for noticing. 

“Sure,” he grunted, releasing Tony’s hand from where it had been caged within his own. Clint took a determined step backwards and watched, with no small amounts of paranoia, as two vaguely familiar doctors swarmed into the place he had just vacated. He was fairly certain that one had treated him before, something about that beard was familiar. And the other he’d definitely seen around the tower, flirting with some of the interns. Tony had liked her, he was certain. 

…This level of paranoia was really unnecessary. Rhodes and JARVIS would have ensured that only the best people were going to treat the missing Tony. He knew this. What was wrong with his brain at the moment? This was unlike him! 

Clint growled quietly to himself and followed the others who had gone ahead whilst he was, once again, wool gathering. They stood together, as a team, as they watched Tony being wheeled away on a stretcher with an annoyingly squeaky wheel. Someone should really grease it. That noise must be so aggravating if you were conscious and on that trolly. 

It was at that point that Tony disappeared from sight into the room where assessments usually took place pre-surgery. The team sagged as one, as though they were marionettes whose strings had been cut post a performance for someone’s sick amusement. Tony was beyond their sight once more. 

But he was _safe_. At least they could only hope so. No one could really know for sure until they were given some results by the doctors.

Bruce allowed himself to slip to the ground in the familiar crossed-legged pose he took for his meditation sessions as he settled in for the long wait that no doubt awaited them all. Clint leant his solid frame against the wall, arms folded protectively across his chest, next to the scientist and heaved out a purposefully obnoxious, long sigh. “So. Back to waiting. Damned Stark.” 

None of the team present doubted the concern that lay hidden under the words.

Nat sidled alongside him and gave him an encouraging shoulder bump whilst Bruce leaned his torso slightly against the archer in a further display of silent support. They’d all noticed the way the usually astute, alert Hawkeye had been dissociating on the journey back. It had been long, long hours for months only to come to the almost surprising conclusion of finding their missing team member. Clint wasn’t the only uncertain whether to believe it was all real.

Steve surveyed his team, his perfect brow etched deeply by lines of fatigue and concern. He’d escaped this battle completely unscathed, and, for once, it looked like the rest of the team were mostly uninjured too. Thor had an already healing cut along his face, Bruce hadn’t been needed beyond his medical capacity and neither Clint nor Natasha had been heavily involved in challenging combat. That their combined injuries were so light seemed such a drastic contrast to Tony… 

Steve steered away from that thought rapidly. No good could be gained from it. What could he say to the sorry group of people before him. Despite their success, they all seemed curiously subdued. Deflated, almost. Mostly exhausted. They should have been elated, but the inability to gain a solid identity… That had to be bothering all of them. How could he bolster them, despite his own worry about Tony not surviving those truly horrific injuries?

“Today is a win, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. We must remember that. I suggest we head off to wash up before meeting back here.”

…That… wasn’t what he should’ve said. But Natasha nodded at him, clearly understanding his fumbled attempts. “Come on Clint, move it.” She bullied the quietly protesting archer into moving towards the lift before turning back to face the others. “I won’t hold the lift for you if you don’t come now. Tony will still be here when we come back” 

The implied threat was enough for them all to get moving as they headed into the lift.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not later than intended, apologies!

Chapter 4: 

Clint should have felt guilty about the increased urgency, it was clear everyone felt once the prisoner was verified as being Tony. He should have felt furious at the treatment his friend had received. He should have felt terror that he couldn’t look at the man and imagine him surviving. He should have felt… something.

He had the vague feeling that if he had been standing, then his legs would have been shaking. Hadn’t he been standing? When did he sit down? Cap’s legs certainly were shaking enough for the pair of them. Cap was leaning one hand heavily on Clint’s shoulder and almost vibrating with the adrenaline that must have been coursing him. This was an enemy they couldn’t fight. Weakness. Injury. Sickness. Who knew what else?

Thirteen months.

Thirteen months, three weeks and … three days. No. Four days.

That’s how long Tony had been away from them for.

How many of those months had he been wearing that fucking mask for? 

How many times had his skin been split? How many times had that leg been broken? What about the other one, had that been broken too? 

Tony had been gone for long enough to have bones break, heal and then rebreak again. Several times. His skin would have healed, cut, bruised… All of these injuries would just be layered. Injury upon injury. He’d been gone for _so_ long. Had they looked hard enough for him? Or had they given up, believing him dead. Had they really left every stone unturned? Could they have found him sooner? 

“ -ton!”

Clint jerked back in his seat, only just noticing the medic’s face so close to his own that they were almost kissing. _“Please tell me nobody kissed me.”_ echoed through his mind, ghosts of words from years in the past as he blinked, re-orientating himself.

“Agent Barton! Hawkeye!” 

Right. That rude medic was trying to get his attention. “What!” he snapped irritably. He was tired, alright? Tired people were prone to distraction, just look at all those times that someone had to practically carry Tony to bed when he’d been pushing the limits of human endurance and had to remind him to complete simple tasks due to his distraction.

The medic simply raised an eyebrow, and it was far too unfair how many people in SHIELD could say volumes purely through their eyebrows. Were there training sessions in this? Nat would surely be the trainer, and she’d have told him if she taught those classes. “You need to touch him again. He is recognising you and can’t hear us. He needs your reassurance.” 

Clint’s eyes were drawn back to Tony, not realising that he’d looked away, why couldn’t he just _focus_? Sure enough, one of those battered, broken arms was reaching out. It was desperately pathetic the way it was searching for something, anything of reassurance. And even more agonising to think about how it barely resembled an arm, littered as it was with swollen lumps from the bruises and misshapen from the bones being out of alignment. Tony’s muffled voice was muttering words that were barely audible, let alone discernible, but Clint was fairly certain that if he had been able to understand them, then he’d recognise his name. 

Thankfully, his legs didn’t seem to require instructions from his brain to move. He found himself crouching down next to the man lying limply on the bed. One hand was placed on the less bruised looking shoulder and began stroking it, whilst the other clasped the shrivelled limb as gently as he could.

He wanted, so much, to be able to pet the man’s hair, or engage in some conversation with him to distract him from the obvious pain. He wanted to be able to warn Tony when someone was going to move him, or touch him, but none of that was possible. Why did he have to be so fucking _useless_. He couldn’t find his friend in time. He had allowed him to get captured in the first place. And now he couldn’t even comfort him; could only uselessly watch as bandages were applied with a skill that far surpassed his own. The medic had looked at the mask askance on his head and decided that the Quinjet was not the kind of place to remove the staples, despite the ongoing distress it was so clearly causing Tony. 

Clint really didn’t like him. Stupid man. He liked even less that his suggestions made sense.

He wouldn’t administer any strong painkillers despite the obvious pain due to the inability to gain consent, even. That’s where Steve was – trying to contact Colonel Rhodes who acted as Tony’s medical proxy apparently in things like this. It was just a fucked-up situation all round. Tony was technically conscious, so the medic refused to administer anything that would be remotely strong enough to do anything. He just spread numbing cream and wrapped bandages around some of the deeper gashes. Clint did his best to help by maintaining contact with the terrified form before him, but the helplessness grated on him. More than a little. 

This was one of his best friends, for fuck’s sake, why was he being so Thor-be-damned _helpless_. 

“Breathe, Clint. We are doing the best we can.” The warm, heavy hand on his shoulder instantly identified the speaker as Steve who had somehow returned to the bedside without Clint’s notice. Steve. Who could, and did, trip over dust particles when he wasn’t focusing. 

“Did you get through to Rhodes?” was the only thing that Clint could think to say in return as one hand stroked soothing circles on the limb he was holding. His gaze was laser focused on the figu-Tony, who was lying on the bed, his frame still spasming as he fought and won over the panic and pain that kept cresting over him. Wave after wave, he, somehow, kept them from overwhelming him.

“I did, yes, he’s on the phone now with Agent Bronson.” That was one of the most amazing things about the Captain. His voice so rarely betrayed any inkling of the stress that he was under when offering support to someone else, and Clint was definitely not unaware enough to recognise the man’s ‘reassuring’ tone. It was rich, warm and somehow did cause a feeling of calm to wash over his battered nerves. The asshole. How could he even have a patriotic tone of voice? 

Clint ‘allowed’ the conversation to glaze over him as he sat and stared at Tony, hoping that his minor attempts were helping him at least a bit. He certainly seemed much calmer than he’d been earlier. Was calmer, no ‘seems’ about it. Clint just couldn’t imagine having his sight and hearing taken from him – it was bad enough having slightly worse than normal hearing. To be blinded, deafened, and then tortured? Clint vaguely felt a shudder run through his body. Amongst his worst nightmares, for sure. 

Time…passed? Supposedly? It felt like thick, like treacle, dripping through a funnel. Gloopy. Anyway, before Clint fully realised it there were more medics entering the Quinjet, and they were apparently at the Tower. With a Rhodes and Pepper present. And a Nat gently removing his hand from Tony’s with the fond-sounding words “Your watch has ended, Hawkeye.” Hah! He _knew_ she’d either watched Game of Thrones or read the book series! “You can quit your mantling, Hawk.” The words soothed the spikes of anxiety that had been growing as more people had entered his sphere of awareness like nothing else would. 

And damn the woman for noticing. 

“Sure,” he grunted, releasing Tony’s hand from where it had been caged within his own. Clint took a determined step backwards and watched, with no small amounts of paranoia, as two vaguely familiar doctors swarmed into the place he had just vacated. He was fairly certain that one had treated him before, something about that beard was familiar. And the other he’d definitely seen around the tower, flirting with some of the interns. Tony had liked her, he was certain. 

…This level of paranoia was really unnecessary. Rhodes and JARVIS would have ensured that only the best people were going to treat the missing Tony. He knew this. What was wrong with his brain at the moment? This was unlike him! 

Clint growled quietly to himself and followed the others who had gone ahead whilst he was, once again, wool gathering. They stood together, as a team, as they watched Tony being wheeled away on a stretcher with an annoyingly squeaky wheel. Someone should really grease it. That noise must be so aggravating if you were conscious and on that trolly. 

It was at that point that Tony disappeared from sight into the room where assessments usually took place pre-surgery. The team sagged as one, as though they were marionettes whose strings had been cut post a performance for someone’s sick amusement. Tony was beyond their sight once more. 

But he was _safe_. At least they could only hope so. No one could really know for sure until they were given some results by the doctors.

Bruce allowed himself to slip to the ground in the familiar crossed-legged pose he took for his meditation sessions as he settled in for the long wait that no doubt awaited them all. Clint leant his solid frame against the wall, arms folded protectively across his chest, next to the scientist and heaved out a purposefully obnoxious, long sigh. “So. Back to waiting. Damned Stark.” 

None of the team present doubted the concern that lay hidden under the words.

Nat sidled alongside him and gave him an encouraging shoulder bump whilst Bruce leaned his torso slightly against the archer in a further display of silent support. They’d all noticed the way the usually astute, alert Hawkeye had been dissociating on the journey back. It had been long, long hours for months only to come to the almost surprising conclusion of finding their missing team member. Clint wasn’t the only uncertain whether to believe it was all real.

Steve surveyed his team, his perfect brow etched deeply by lines of fatigue and concern. He’d escaped this battle completely unscathed, and, for once, it looked like the rest of the team were mostly uninjured too. Thor had an already healing cut along his face, Bruce hadn’t been needed beyond his medical capacity and neither Clint nor Natasha had been heavily involved in challenging combat. That their combined injuries were so light seemed such a drastic contrast to Tony… 

Steve steered away from that thought rapidly. No good could be gained from it. What could he say to the sorry group of people before him. Despite their success, they all seemed curiously subdued. Deflated, almost. Mostly exhausted. They should have been elated, but the inability to gain a solid identity… That had to be bothering all of them. How could he bolster them, despite his own worry about Tony not surviving those truly horrific injuries?

“Today is a win, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. We must remember that. I suggest we head off to wash up before meeting back here.”

…That… wasn’t what he should’ve said. But Natasha nodded at him, clearly understanding his fumbled attempts. “Come on Clint, move it.” She bullied the quietly protesting archer into moving towards the lift before turning back to face the others. “I won’t hold the lift for you if you don’t come now. Tony will still be here when we come back” 

The implied threat was enough for them all to get moving as they headed into the lift.


End file.
